


the sly traveller, cruelly coursing

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the ridiculously romantic Rampod Redbolts au [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Domeric Bolton is a Good Bro, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ramsay Bolton reaching Peak Self-Awareness, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Robb Stark is King in the North, Roose Bolton's A+ Parenting, it's a goddamned Christmas miracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-23 16:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Pod is unexpectedly threatened and Ramsay goes on the rampage.Can be read as a standalone fic, you don't need to be familiar with the verse.





	1. Chapter 1

The night was going well, with enough revelry that Ramsay forgot to be irritated at his father’s extra oppression, when there were guests present. He found himself inadvertently having a pleasant time. Pod had gravitated closer toward him, until he had managed to drag Ramsay into a dance. Ramsay was deep enough into his cups to allow it, though he usually abstained, for fear of looking the fool. Prancing about did not strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. And Ramsay was of the belief that everyone, save his immediate family, was a potential future enemy.

In fact, if pressed, Ramsay’s loyalty extended from Dom and Pod and Merik, to Dom’s daughters and aunt Barbrey Dustin, and Robb Stark, who had proved himself a worthy King. The rest could go hang, save perhaps his father’s lover, Gwynesse Harlaw (though she was only useful while his father lived, for her influence over the decrepit old miser).

“Dark thoughts, my love?” Pod purred softly, “You’ve a black raincloud hanging over you all of a sudden, when we were in such high spirits before.”

“I just hate being surrounded by these fucks,” Ramsay grumbled, glaring at another couple, who were dancing too close for his liking.

Unlike Pod and Ramsay, the others were dancing a set; abiding by the steps as they leapt about, swapping partners and revelling in the lively tune. Pod was encouraging Ramsay to actually put some effort into abiding the set steps, but they danced with no one save each other. Ramsay had a tendency to growl at anyone that sought to cut in between him and Pod, and the Northmen had learnt not to attempt it.

“Ignore them,” said Pod, “It’s only you and I that matter, here.”

“Hmm,” Ramsay grumbled, though he agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

Pod reached up on the tip of his toes, to press a kiss to Ramsay’s cheek, before attempting to slither away from his grasp. Ramsay tightened his hold, reluctant to relinquish his love, even for a moment.

“Where are you going?” he asked, and Pod smiled sweetly at his obvious concern.

“For wine,” said Pod, “All this cantering about leaves me with a powerful thirst.”

Ramsay pressed his hands upon Pod’s back, drawing him in closer for a real kiss. He relished invading Pod’s mouth obscenely with his tongue. They kissed roughly, keen but uncouth, as such intimacies were usually reserved for private moments, amongst the highborn. But Ramsay had never cared for the opinions of others. He caught Dom’s amused look when at last Pod had extricated himself from Ramsay’s grasping hold. Ramsay glowered at the amused twinkle his elder brother did nothing to disguise.

Dom loved to tease him, and Ramsay took it good-naturedly, though his nature had never been thought of as ‘good’ by anyone that ever breathed. Dom had a lot of currency to spend with Ramsay, for he was somewhere between father and brother in Ramsay’s eyes. He had sheltered him from the worst their actual father had heaped upon them. The bond between them was thick, more of an iron chain, than the mere river of blood, that joined most brothers. There was something unbreakable in the bonds formed between those who suffered indignities together.

Trusting Pod to return with a goblet Ramsay could drink from, he was content to catch his breath by surveying the room. The usual sycophants were here, lapping up his father’s attention like beasts supping from the same river. They flocked round their liege lord like agitated sheep clung to their herder. Ramsay scoffed at the Whitehill contingent, particularly irritating lickspittles.

His eyes roamed to where Beth was basking in the centre of attention. This feast was for her name-day. Father had even sprung open the coffers enough to offer a prize for a melee, the closest Northmen ever got to playing at war as in the Southron tourneys. Naturally, more had come to the Dreadfort than usual, including Dom’s aunt and all of her irritating brothers. Ramsay was almost certain he had caught one leering at Pod covetously. Beth was enjoying the attention and pleased as punch regarding the large turn-out.

Ramsay had a soft spot for Beth. She was irritating, like all young girls were, with her high-pitched voice, and her trilling over nonsense. She fluttered about like a colourful butterfly, as though life at the Dreadfort were a song. But if she hadn’t been an entertaining creature as a babe, Ramsay would never have seen the merit of sowing his seed in Myranda. Were there no Beth, there would be no Merik, and Ramsay wouldn’t be without his son now. For this, Ramsay offered Beth leeway no other might have had, which eventually extended to her sister Rose also, and any subsequent children Dom might have.

His lenience stretched thus; no matter the slight, Ramsay left the discipline of Dom’s daughters to his brother. Ramsay knew enough of himself to know his judgement was too swift, too harsh, to be meted out to annoying little girls who didn’t know how dangerous he could be. It was the safest path for them. Judging by the proud beam from Dom, whenever Ramsay merely unclenched his fists and sent the girls to him, Ramsay knew he had made a sensible decision.

From Beth, his gaze returned to where Pod had drifted to his place at the top table, and was enjoying an orange and redcurrent sweetmeat – Pod’s favourite dessert – while imbibing liberally from his goblet. Ramsay’s plump lips quirked into a fond grin, which slowly morphed into a frown when Pod grimaced, reaching for his throat. His lover began to cough, his cheeks reddening from the strain to breathe. Ramsay was already shouldering his way across the cleared floor, still filled with cheerful dancers, when Pod doubled over, struggling for breath.

Assuming he was choking, Ramsay broke into a run, which he did not see that Dom took notice of. His brother was soon hot on his trail across the room. With tears streaming from his eyes, Pod could barely stop convulsing to offer Ramsay a look of terror. Ramsay grabbed him about the shoulders, to keep him steady as he slammed his hand against Pod’s back, in an effort to make him cough up whatever was caught in Pod’s throat. It didn’t work. Pod merely reared forwards and threw up, splattering Ramsay’s shoes with chunks of half-digested roast pork.

Grimacing heavily, Ramsay endeavoured to ignore the mess, trailing a soothing hand down Pod’s back. He noticed that Dom had joined him, and was pleased his elder brother was similarly invested in Pod’s welfare. Ramsay encouraged Pod to lean on him, intending to lead him back to their shared quarters, when Pod began to shake unnaturally in his arms, shivering violently.

“Pod?” said Ramsay, wondering if perhaps he was weeping in shame over a little vomit – these floors had been covered in far worse, and he intended to say so – but Pod dropped onto Ramsay’s embracing arm like a sack of potatoes, dragging the pair of them to the floor.

“Pod!” Ramsay cried out, horrified at the sight of his love with his eyes rolled back into his head, bubbles of white spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth.

“Fetch the maester!” Ramsay roared, but Dom was already about it, racing across the room to where Maester Wolkan was talking with the few learned men amongst their father’s vassal lords.

Pod continued to fit in his arms, and atop his image, Ramsay saw his wife, blood bubbling at her lips as she died in his arms. Was he to lose all he loved, in this same undignified manner?

Dom had sent the maester hurrying over, then ordered the musicians to cease, so that all in their midst became aware of the dire situation. Father marched toward them at a pace to match the maester, so that all three men converged on Ramsay where he was kneeling beside Pod, who had ceased his thrashing, and was deathly still. For a wild, terrifying moment, Ramsay thought him dead. It was only a hand to Pod’s rapidly fluttering throat, where his blood beat anxiously through his flesh, that assured him all was not lost.

Maester Wolkan lifted Pod’s eyelids, then opened his mouth, assessing the horrible foam there.

“We must get him to my chambers at once, he requires a tincture,” said the old man, looking to Lord Roose Bolton with sadness in his gaze. “He might not make it through the night, my lord.”

Ramsay grabbed hold of the old man’s mouldy grey robes, dragging him close enough that their noses almost touched.

“If he dies,” Ramsay growled, “I’ll send you to your Seven Hells screaming, you old fuck.”

“Ramsay,” said Father, in his iciest tone, “Your posturing wastes precious time, that Podrick cannot afford to lose.”

It was only these words that had Ramsay releasing the terrified servant without further threats, though his harsh gaze assured that the maester knew his vow was a promise.

“I- I- strong men are needed, to carry him to my chambers,” Maester Wolkan stuttered, hurriedly scrambling to his feet, far away from Ramsay’s rough reach.

“Get away from him,” Ramsay snarled at the meek manservants, who had pressed forward in an effort to be accommodating and carry out the old man’s orders.

In a feat of his usually hidden strength, Ramsay scooped Pod up into his hold, with an arm beneath his knees and another around his back, to draw him close and lurch to his feet. Pod lay prone in his embrace, his head lolling back as Ramsay hefted his dead weight. Refusing assistance other than the guardsmen opening the doors to the hall, Ramsay carried Pod from the room, a black scowl upon his face. He only paused when Merik cried out in worry, finally alerted to the situation in the obtuse way that only children had.

The boy made to scurry over, and Ramsay grimaced. He knew his son would only get underfoot, asking questions he could not address and blubbering when Pod did not wake at his call. Ramsay had not the patience to deal with the tomfoolery of children, at the best of times. He was not likely to deal well with his son, when they were both in a state of agitation.

Before Ramsay could ask Dom to take care of Merik, unexpected aid came from an unlikely quarter. Wylla rushed forward to waylay the boy. She crouched to her knees to gather him close with soothing, hushing noises of reassurance. Ramsay would have been startled by the clear indication that Wylla’s contempt of him did not extend to his only offspring. But he had no space in his mind for any thought, save Pod’s declining condition. Ramsay spared a moment to offer his goodsister a grateful look, nodding at her stoically, in recognition of her useful intervention. Wylla set her mouth in acknowledgement. It was the closest to harmony between them that was ever likely to occur. Pod would have been proud, were he awake to see it.

But he might not wake again, and Ramsay had never been more conscious of the mortality of his beloved, than in that moment. With Dom trailing after him in concern, their made their way to the maester’s chambers. It had an adjoining room for patients who required constant supervision.

There Ramsay lay Pod across the spare featherbed, while maids scurried about clearing the dust and lighting the fire. Maester Wolkan hurried to his glass-fronted cupboards of potions and ointments, mumbling to himself, as he lifted one tiny glass bottle after another. Eventually he settled on three, quickly devising a mixture for Pod to drink from the combination.

Ramsay stood by, feeling utterly useless as the Maester worked to ensure Pod drank. The maester massaged his throat, so the mixture went down. Then he hefted a large wooden bowl over, and not a moment too soon, directing Pod’s head so that his second stream of vomit didn’t cover the bedsheets.

“What are you doing, you fool?” Ramsay snarled, “Emptying his stomach continually might kill him!”

Ramsay knew enough about men’s ailments to know that repeated vomiting ripped up a man’s insides, until they were choking on their own blood. The maester handed the bowl to his manservant to empty, his countenance grave. Ramsay bristled at the man’s grim look.

“Emptying his stomach was necessary, to rid the last traces of poison from it,” said Wolkan.

Ramsay felt uncannily as though he had been punched in the stomach. It took him a long, awful moment to understand what the man meant. Someone had tried to poison Pod, and might yet succeed in murdering him. There was a snake in their midst, plotting death to his loved ones. Ramsay was prepared to tear the castle apart by chiselling through the very mortar, to find out who dared to threaten his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will probably update on Tuesday, if this gets a few more comments.


	2. Chapter 2

“I want to know what measures you have taken, to find the man that tried to kill Pod,” said Ramsay, his forceful words just shy of a demand.

His father sat unmoved, his hands steepled, lightly pressing into his thin-lipped mouth, quietly surveying his son with his reptilian eyes.

“We can’t let any of these conniving cunts leave,” said Ramsay, “In case any of them know of a scheme, or saw someone tampering with Pod’s wine. Someone knows who did this, someone always does, and it only takes a little persuasion for their secrets to come sliding off along with their-”

“Perhaps the ladies ought to retire,” said Lord Roose, in his small hiss of a voice, “This discussion is not for delicate ears.”

He did not need to shout to be menacing. Ramsay well knew how angry his father was, about him alluding to their creative methods of extracting information, given that the Starks had outlawed flaying a hundred years ago. Dom’s wife generally couldn’t be trusted with dangerous information, with her nervous disposition.

The family had reconvened in the great hall, after the hubbub of the guests being sent back to their chambers. Dom had come to fetch Ramsay in Wolkan's rooms, at the hour of the wolf. Ramsay had not left Pod's side, for fear of him dying alone. Ramsay had been reluctant to leave, despite father's orders, but Dom had brought Damon to watch over Pod. And Ramsay was curious to know what had been discovered thus far.

Gwynesse heeded his father’s bidding with nary a word more needed. She rose sedately to her feet, with only a squeeze to Roose’s arm to indicate the intimate relationship between them. Gwyn was as reticent and discreet as his father. At that moment it only served to irritate Ramsay further. He was missing his own partner in life. The man who balanced him as well, if not better, than Gwyn completed his father’s imperfect being.

Gwynesse took a reluctant Wylla with her. She chided the girl who began hissing at Dom to ‘remain uninvolved’ and ‘think of his girls before acting rashly’ as she was led from the room. When the womenfolk had retired, Ramsay advanced further, toward his emotionless husk of a sire.

“I will not be satisfied before each man, woman and child has been interrogated of their whereabouts tonight,” he began belligerently, but Roose stopped his tirade with one unflinching hand.

“I have no doubt that your unskilled mind is clouded by grief,” said Father, “Or you would not dare to question my judgement in the running of this household thus. I have already taken measured steps to ensure the culprit is found.”

“Such as?” Ramsay questioned boldly.

He ignored the incredulous look his elder brother shot him, which was clearly asking if he wanted Roose to get out the dreaded bucket. Neither of them had suffered their head to be held underwater almost until the point of death (or whenever they stopped thrashing and gave in), since they were very small. It was easily the worst of Father’s punishments, worse than being locked in the kitchen cellar with only the rats for company. Father said it was a boy’s punishment, and had thus ceased to use it when they came of age. Yet it had taken years for Ramsay to rid himself of an irrational aversion to buckets, and still he would not suffer to have one in his room. 

"I will not have my bastard questioning my decisions-" Roose began, and in an extremely foolish show of rage, Ramsay interrupted to interject;

"How can I object to decisions I know nothing about?"

Roose turned pale, livid at the flagrant disrespect. Ramsay opened his mouth once more, but at last Dom intervened, proving his love for Ramsay was deeper than his regard for his wife's words. He leaped forwards, smothering Ramsay's mouth with his hand. An invitation to get bitten, were he anyone else. As it were, Ramsay merely stamped on his brother's toes. Dom cursed under his breath, but he did not let go, even as Ramsay ground his heel in viciously.

Father eyed them with distaste. He did not show his ire like other men, who hopped about and spat in a rage, faces red and fists balled, looking ridiculous. Roose Bolton never looked ridiculous. He stood slowly and grew even quieter, with deadly intent.

"Shut your foolish mouth," Dom warned Ramsay, releasing his hold, so that they stood before their incensed father as men, not tussling boys.

Ramsay valiantly resisted the urge to sock his well-meaning brother in the mouth. Dom glared at him. Dom knew exactly what manner of violence Ramsay's murderous look forewarned of. His harsh look dared Ramsay to try it.

Father reminded them of his presence by saying; "If one more ill-mannered word drips from your lips, and you will be spending the night in the stocks. I hear cook was complaining of some particularly fragrant rotten tomatoes."

Ramsay glowered, though it was an idle threat. He didn't doubt Father would place him in the stocks overnight, but no one had ever thrown mouldy fruit at him. The gods had blessed Ramsay with a demeanour far too fucking terrifying for anyone to dare. Still, the fact remained that father was willing to see Ramsay humiliated, whilst his lover lay potentially dying. Much like most of Father's sentiments, it was unforgivable.

Ramsay could not risk being kept from Pod's bedside, should he be needed. A hateful glare was the only move left open to him. His father sneered, unconcerned with his sons' good favour, as usual.

“I have sealed the Dreadfort, this you know. What you do not know, is that of each bannerman represented here, I have taken their smallest child. Or the youngest member of their household here present, to be our treasured guests. Until such time that the culprit is uncovered.” Roose said icily, “They will remain here if I choose to allow their families to leave, if the catspaw remains a shadow.”

Ramsay gaped, momentarily stunned by this show of fatherly piety, hitherto unseen nor ever suspected to come from his father. Dom looked equally spooked by the revelation that their father might actually contain some warmth toward them, deep within his flesh. Neither of them had ever considered that might be the truth before.

“Father… that you would do this, for Pod…” Ramsay stumbled over his thanks, having never had cause to express it genuinely before.

Roose scoffed, immediately breaking the moment. “This is not about your pet, idiot boy. That any man dared to infiltrate this castle, and risk the lives of any member of House Bolton, that they dreamed to threaten a man under my protection, those having taken guest right… that is a slight I cannot abide.”

Ramsay swallowed mulishly, disappointed but not surprised by his father’s pitiless summary of the present grief befalling them.

“The boy was doubtless in the wrong place,” Roose continued, “There is no reason, no reason at all, to suspect that he was this ruffian’s target.”

Ramsay frowned heavily. He had not considered that Podrick was not the one meant to suffer, and it was surprisingly reassuring to realise that his father was most likely correct. Lord Bolton made it a habit of being right. For what reason would there be for any to harm Pod?

“No, the most likely target was either Domeric or myself,” Roose mulled, “Especially since your boy makes a habit of being agreeable, and courting favour on your behalf- as you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head. Not even when speaking to your own lord father.”

Ramsay clenched his fists until they ached, but he recalled his father’s warning and said not a word. Roose smirked, a satisfied curl of his thin, bloodless lips, to see the effort Ramsay was expending to keep ahold of his temper. Ramsay hated him in that moment even more than usual. He calmed himself by splitting the aging man’s head open with his sword, in his mind's eye.

“This assassin,” said Dom, “Whose employ do you suspect him to be in?”

“I suspect everyone,” said Roose sensibly, “Though Barbrey Dustin would not cross me, and the Whitehills are more loyal than most. They have no reason to bear ill-will toward us, excepting Ramsay’s usual disregard.”

“I disregard everyone, they are not an exception,” Ramsay pointed out.

“Indeed,” said Roose severely, not impressed by Ramsay’s blasé honesty.

But Northmen had a reputation for being frank for good reason. Ramsay wasn’t going to pretend to care about the general population of Westeros, just to improve his standing in his father’s eyes. It would be hypocritical in the extreme for Roose to be bothered by Ramsay’s actual disregard. His father was only displeased because Ramsay was so bad at hiding it. Not like Dom, who had even managed to charm the Manderlys long enough to win over their spare heir, and a shit-ton of silver as her dowry. Wylla had come to learn how shallow Bolton feelings penetrated the skin, and lamented her choice, no doubt. She hardly seemed the riot of happiness she had once been.

Ramsay shrugged his shoulders, to relieve some of the ache from the tension he carried there. Pod often massaged out his hurts, as he had begun doing when he was still Ramsay’s squire. It was a ritual between them that didn’t even always lead to rutting, which was usually the primary reason Ramsay took off his clothes. Pod had smooth hands and a firm touch, a gentle disposition and a bright manner. He was a speck of stardust that had somehow drifted from the dark heavens into Ramsay’s rough and unworthy hands, and he would be damned before he let him go. They were opposites in almost every fashion, and yet they belonged together all the better for it.

Ramsay did not know how he would cope without Pod’s goodness to rely on. Ramsay was not capable of it. He was the darkness Pod lacked, the grime and filth a man needed to survive. Without him, Pod would be mercilessly swindled. Without Pod, Ramsay might turn into a monster worse than his father. He was teetering on the edge of becoming such when they first became lovers, after Myranda died. Pod dragged him back from the precipice without even knowing he was attempting such, so inherent was his kindness he thought it mere duty. He did not know he showed Ramsay more consideration than anyone save Dom had. Even Myranda was more of an ally than a companion. She shared his sickness, like an extension of himself. His reflection in female form.

If Ramsay had not had Pod by his side, he shuddered to think on the little hellion his son might have become. Merik had been mothered almost entirely by Podrick. The devastation, if Pod died, might even hit him harder than it would Ramsay. He was not certain his son would ever recover from the blow. For both their sakes, Pod needed to live. Ramsay had a life worth enjoying because of Pod. All the light would be sucked out of it, if he died. There would only be the shadows, and the black deeds Ramsay could perform in them. Suddenly, Ramsay felt the urge to tell his father so.

“I am a better man, a better son, because of Podrick,” he announced, to the surprise of the other men, “Do you not agree?”

“Aye,” said Roose quickly.

Dom said nothing, but he gave a jerk of his head in what might have been a nod. Ramsay didn’t truly need their agreement. He knew it to be true.

“If he dies, all that is good in me will die with him,” he said softly, “And you should know that there is little enough goodness to be found. It would be a dire shame to lose it.”

Roose pursed his lips, seemingly uneasy at this declaration. “Maester Luwin is confident the fever will break.”

“But not certain,” Ramsay said. He took a deep breath and released it with a sigh. “If I lose him… I want you to send Merik to be fostered with another House.”

“Ramsay-!” Dom started, shocked.

Ramsay shrugged, “I am not fit to parent him alone, and especially not in grief. The boy would only suffer with me.”

His icy blue eyes met Dom’s, only a shade darker than his own. They had swore to one another, in long nights when tempests howled outside and they shivered together, their hair still wet from their drowning, that they would never treat their sons as they had been treated. At length, Dom nodded. Miserably conceding it was the right course of action. There would never be any buckets in Merik’s nightmares.

“That might be the wisest suggestion you have ever made,” said Roose slowly, regarding Ramsay with interest, as though looking for the flicker of intelligence in his son, “The Vale treated Dom well enough. I have no doubt Merik would flourish there also.”

And he would be far enough away from Ramsay to be safe. It was a sentiment that went unacknowledged, as Ramsay nodded in agreement. There would be those who might argue that Merik would need the support of his remaining family, in his time of grief. But Ramsay knew a clean break from the memories of the Dreadfort would be better for him. In the Vale, at least he would not be smothered by Ramsay’s disappointment, when he inevitably grew frustrated with himself for being unable to parent Merik with the same patience and insight as Pod.

Ramsay's new revelation was cut short, by the appearance in the doorway of Maester Wolkan. The man stood clutching his hands together about his waist, like the trembling dormouse he was. Ramsay fumed to see him there, knowing Pod required him close.

"Ah," said Father, "Yes Wolkan, you have the answers I asked for?"

"Yes m'lord," said the aged man, "I am sorry to say your suspicions regarding the wine were incorrect, m'lord. The cask was not poisoned, nor the serving flagons."

"So it was not the family entire held under the axeman's blade?" Roose clarified.

"No, m'lord,"

"But anyone could have drunk from the poisoned goblet," said Dom, "How did the fiend hope to succeed?"

Wolkan shifted uneasily, clearly frightened of the reaction his conclusions were likely to give. Yet also knowing that a sharp swift declaration would lead to the least amount of pain.

"You mistake me, Ser Domeric," said the maester, "For it was not the wine at all, which was poisoned."

Father nodded at the man to continue.

"As Lord Bolton requested, I had the food form the top table tested, using methods as laid out by Archmaester Marwyn, in his recent publication-"

"Yes, yes," said Father, "The point being?"

"That it was the sweetmeat Ser Podrick ate that was poisoned."

For a deathly quiet moment all was still. Excepting the sour cherry tart that was an infrequent addition to the top table (due to the pitifully small grove of cherry trees in the godswood), Pod's favourite dessert was redcurrent sweetmeats. It was well-known. There had been one remaining at Pod's place at the table, Ramsay remembered suddenly.

It was odd that there should only be one, close to Pod's place. Had it been there earlier, Pod would no doubt have eaten it already. It was planted to tempt him in particular. Ramsay voiced this outloud in a kind of daze.

"Pod was the catspaw's target after all," whispered Ramsay, before letting out a tremendous bellow and sweeping a table free of the flagons of wine, plates and platters of food that had been left upon the tables at Roose's request.

The messy crash did nothing to ease the roar in his mind. Someone was going to bleed for this.


	3. Chapter 3

Ramsay stood braced against the open doorway, surveying the quiet room. He worried the flesh about his thumb with a nervous energy that was uncharacteristic of him in general. Whenever Ramsay was agitated, he took out his annoyance on other people, and the feeling went away. This sickness of Pod’s, induced by another, could not be so easily set aside. And it could not have come at a worse time.

King Robb Stark had made tentative overtures towards the Redbolts, and invited them to see his latest restoration project at Sea Dragon Point. The King was building a new harbour there. Ramsay was admittedly intrigued to see it, but Pod was thrilled. He believed that the King might be on the verge of offering the lordship of the new keep there to them.

Ramsay thought it was a ridiculous idea, frankly. Were he the King, Ramsay would doubtless not trust himself with the wellbeing of a flock of sheep, let alone the farmers and sailors of an entire city. Evidently, the King in the North knew that Podrick was the temperance that allowed Ramsay to move away from his brutal battlefield reputation. Neither man stood in line to inherit anything, and Merik was their heir. It did make a certain amount of sense, yet Ramsay was unsure of being so far from the Dreadfort.

The idea of waking up each day, far from Dom, even with the advantage of being out from underneath Father’s thumb, left an ill taste in his mouth. Ramsay needed guidance, though he would never admit it. Pod and Dom were men he trusted and needed close. He could not be certain Father would allow him to take his boys with them. Damon was officially a household guard.

It would be a strange undertaking for Ramsay to start again, with a whole new bunch of miscreants to train up to his standards. Now there could be no question of them leaving the Dreadfort. Pod needed time if he was to recover, and there was no question of Ramsay assuming the rule anywhere without him, were Pod alive or dead. It was a foolish idea that would now never come to fruition.

Maester Wolkan mopped at Pod’s sweaty brow with a concerned look upon his ancient, wobbling jowls. Ramsay wanted to tear his face off in frustration, feeling useless. His art was entirely based in rending flesh, not mending it. There was nothing Ramsay could do for Pod.

He felt a tugging upon his breeches, a small hand pulling on the grimy leather. There was only one person who would dare to gain his attention this way.

“Father,” said Merik, with huge brown eyes swimming in tears, “Is Pod going to die?”

Ramsay clucked his tongue, irritated that Merik had escaped his lessons. What was wrong with the servants? Did they not know his child was more vulnerable than ever?

With a tentative hand, Ramsay brushed his son’s curls back from his clammy face. Feeling uncharacteristically soft, Ramsay followed an unusual impulse to duck down and gather his son into his arms. He lifted the boy up to sit on his hip, as he had not done since Merik was a babe.

“Podrick is strong,” said Ramsay, “Stronger than you can imagine. Poison is a cowardly, woman’s art-”

Here Ramsay broke off, stunned. Merik squirmed in his hold, terrified by the implication of his father stopping mid-sentence.

“Father?”

“Pod will fight to come back to us,” Ramsay assured him, “And until he is well, he would want you to continue with your lessons dutifully. He will expect to hear of your progress when he is hale.”

Merik nodded seriously. He was generally obedient, though he struggled when he wasn’t asked in a direct fashion, with clear instructions. He oftentimes missed out on the most obvious matters. It drove Roose wild, but Ramsay knew that Pod’s patience and careful speech was all the boy needed, to perform as well as any other child his age.

A tiny hand clutched at the back of Ramsay’s collar, like a one-armed hug, capturing his attention again.

“Father, will you take me?”

Ramsay blinked, not sure what the child was asking. His eyes narrowed.

“You ask me to carry you back to your lessons?”

Merik ducked his head, clearly embarrassed by his childish need. He must be missing Pod something awful. Ramsay was entirely wrong for this. He must have been momentarily mad to think he could ever be a father. He pressed a kiss to Merik’s hair, as Pod did when he tucked the boy into bed at night.

“As you wish, sweetling,” said Ramsay, continuing to act as Pod might.

He was a poor substitute. But Ramsay hitched Merik a little higher on his hip, and tried to ignore the blatant looks of alarm and surprise from members of the household, including his own brother, when they caught sight of him carrying his son about affectionately.

After depositing Merik back in his studies and squeezing the tutor’s wrist so hard the bones ground together, when the man presumed to speak sternly to his boy for running off, Ramsay sought out his father. Generally, Ramsay remained as far out of his father’s influence and eyesight as was feasibly possible, given that they lived in the same stronghold. Roose was perpetually sore with him over some issue or another. Rarely did Ramsay listen to whatever tirade Roose had in store for him. It was always the same mixture of disappointment and fury.

Roose raised an eyebrow to find Ramsay waiting patiently at the entryway of his solar, but ushered him in.

“I think I have an idea of who might want to poison Pod,” Ramsay said, carefully, “Or at least, what manner of person.”

“Sit,” said Roose, indicating the chair across from his desk.

With a nervous fidget of his fingers, Ramsay took the offered seat.

“Podrick has no jealous relatives vying for his land, nor does he have the tendency to make grave insult and foster resentment.”

“No indeed,” Roose agreed slowly.

“His strongest ties are to this household,” said Ramsay, “To me. I am considered unwed, and there have been girls pressed to try for my hand despite his presence. Poison is a woman’s weapon.”

Roose’s icy eyes flickered with something foreign and strange. If Ramsay were not certain it would lead to madness, he might have said his father was looking at him with pride and respect. But that was ludicrous.

“You think the boy was poisoned so that you might take another wife.”

“Robb Stark has invited us to the new harbour,” said Ramsay, “There are some who might know he intended to give us the new keep.”

“You would be considered a fine match indeed then,” Roose mused, “Shocking though I find it, your reasoning is sound. I think I would even say we can discount those Houses without eligible daughters for you to wed.”

“It doesn’t matter who did this,” Ramsay said, “Lord or Lady, I will wear their skin before the year is out.”

Roose sucked on his lower lip sourly. “Ludd Whitehill knew of your invitation, and he has an unwed daughter. I would not have thought the girl capable, but perhaps the father or one of her brothers acted on her behalf.”

“I need a new pair of gloves,” said Ramsay conversationally.

Roose sighed heavily, but dismissed him. Pod’s fever broke that night, though it would take almost a month before he returned to his full duties, and longer still for Ramsay to cease fussing over him.

It was discovered that a lesser House than the Whitehills had the poison in their possession, and under interrogation one of their servants admitted the scheme. Feeling generous, Roose let Ramsay kill them all, save the youngest children. Those Roose took into fosterage, to raise to be household guards or in servitude, and was considered kind for it. Their lands were stripped and given to Podrick, for his loyal service to House Bolton, and as restitution for the plot against him which had not been thwarted before he came to harm.

Ramsay insisted on a tester for all of Pod’s food and drink for many years afterwards, though it was never proven necessary again. The decaying, dismembered bodies which hung from the battlements for years, until they rotted away entirely into heaps of bones, saw to that.


End file.
